by Saima Mir
Their patriotism was lost on Jia. She wondered why they boasted about a nation that was built on blood, sweat and rape, run by power-hungry, money-grabbing misogynists. What did it offer them? Life would be simpler without the troublesome burden of her bloodline, without the battle for identity that drove young people to places like Syria to fight a war that was never theirs to begin with, for a people that would slaughter them, given half the chance. How easy it would be to change her name to something more European and lose herself in the majority society. But she was a Pukhtun and to the Khans that meant more than patriotism. It meant heritage and responsibility. It meant loyalty and love of nation. It meant changing the world for the better.
She had believed she was chosen. Her father had told her as much. Repeatedly. Tell someone something enough times and they believe it. But somewhere along the road to being the favourite child, their paths had diverged. And now, travelling to meet her father’s men, she had to summon all the old ways and values and sacredness of that choosing. She wondered what she was doing in this rundown, forsaken city, a place whose children, according to the media, had run into the arms of extremists overseas. Even the men and women who ran agencies of intelligence, who possessed ‘in-depth information’, couldn’t tell them why these children were strapping bombs to their bodies. But Jia knew why. She knew what it was to run, and a part of her could sense the desperation that had pushed people so far into the wrong, just to find understanding and identity.
It was a long way from what Akbar Khan had wanted for his children. He had wanted them to do well, and in order to do that he understood that they had to integrate with the country into which they had been born. He had impressed this upon them and encouraged them. Both he and her mother were keen for them to leave the family business behind and start anew on unsullied lines and cleaner foundations.
The push and pull of old and new flooded back in through the windows as the car entered the city, threading its way through streets lined with sand-coloured buildings, ice-cream parlours, shisha bars and boarded-up pubs.
She leaned back into the warm leather of the seats, reminding herself that she had always been a good daughter. She had tried to live life the way her family had wanted, even though it had meant breaking away from them, and to some extent she had succeeded. But things had changed so suddenly, and now it seemed the life that had opened up to her was closing back in.
CHAPTER 22
A guard sat reading an Urdu paper in a small outbuilding by the iron gates. The emblem of the Jirga was set in the centre of the gates, its red and gold roses both warning and welcoming visitors. The guard glanced up and then quickly rose to attention as he recognised the approaching vehicle’s licence plates. The heavy black gates swung open slowly and the Range Rover slipped through and on to a private road. They drove for almost a mile before reaching the end of the winding driveway, where ten neatly parked black Bentleys signalled that the members of Akbar Khan’s Jury were here and waiting. A white Rolls-Royce, the only one of its kind in the line-up, was being buffed by a chauffeur in a neatly pressed Nehru jacket. Keeping up with the Khans was an expensive part of business, but the accoutrements of privilege were necessary if people were to believe they were living in times of plenty, and that their loyalty would be repaid.
Jia glanced at her watch; they had made good time. Idris had been in touch with the arrangements. ‘The Jirga had to start strictly controlling locations and timings after the attempt on Akbar Khan’s life in ’95,’ he’d said. Jia remembered those days vividly, her father in hospital, men in and out of the house checking security and ignoring everyone around them. A dark cloud had descended on the family business. Tensions had been high then, much as they were now, but this time her father wasn’t here to navigate them.
The riots of that year had left their mark on the Khans and taught them an invaluable lesson: organised crime cannot operate without the rule of law. So they had drawn up a clear set of rules on which the family business now ran. These rules ran alongside the ancient tribal laws, and were enforced and adhered to.
There was a clear protocol for meetings. Decisions were finalised last minute to minimise leaks. Representatives from each family met an hour before the scheduled arrival time to draw straws, with the man with the longest straw making the venue arrangements. It was a great honour, but the work required was hard and they had to move fast. After all, they were Pukhtun and hospitality was as great a concern as security.
Today, Mubarak Khan and his establishment had been tasked with the honour. A master baker, he was among the closest and most trusted of Akbar Khan’s allies. The meeting was being held at his bread-making business on the outskirts of the city, in a pink building that nestled among the landscape like a gentle rose.
He was standing by the entrance when Jia arrived, his portly body reminding her of a wholemeal dough ball waiting to be dusted and flattened and rolled into a chapatti. Mubarak Khan was bound by a deep loyalty. His empire was built on the foundations of the Khan brotherhood that some called ‘biraderi’, but as with all great patriarchal cultures, his family business was in fact started by a woman for her one great love, her son.
Despite his success, Mubarak Khan had not forgotten his debt, or his place in the Khan brotherhood. His feet were planted firmly on the ground and ready to follow the Khan into battle. After all, it was his money that had enabled the uneducated but ambitious baker to start the venture; it was his guiding hand that had helped it prove, and his insistence on ‘taking care’ of competitors that had allowed it to rise and become golden. Mubarak’s mother had baked the code of the ‘Old Country’ into everything she made, and that included her son. It was mixed in with the red clay of his ovens, the salt that seasoned his flour and the blood that ran through his veins. And so Akbar Khan’s daughter was now Mubarak’s daughter; her wishes were his command and her honour was now his duty. He greeted her warmly, kissing her forehead, tears in his eyes.
Jia hadn’t visited the bakery since she was a child. She reached out to touch the walls, letting her fingers move across the once-peeling paint, and saw that they had been restored with care.
Mubarak Khan led her through the building, the fragrance of hot naan and cinnamon swirling through the air as they walked the length of the corridor. He pushed open a door at the end and together they entered a shiny stainless-steel kitchen where men wearing black cotton aprons and matching linen hats were mixing and kneading and baking. Light dustings of flour covered their faces and everything around them. Jia watched as three men took pieces of dough and plied them into balls, rolling each one out into a circle before placing it on a kind of cooking cushion. A fourth man picked up the cushion and reached into the burning tandoor, pressing the uncooked naan against the hot clay wall to make it stick. She thought of her father’s words the last time she had been here. ‘Respect these men,’ he had said. ‘Every day they put their hands into the depths of hellfire to bring you food.’ Watching the men work, Jia wondered how deep into those hellfires Akbar Khan now found himself.
Beyond the kitchen and hidden in the heart of the bakery was a large, windowless conference room. A select few knew of its existence, and if its whitewashed walls could talk, they would have destroyed many a powerful man. The room was a place of shura, of consultation, and this was the way of the Jirga. Akbar Khan had long held that debate and discussion gave people a sense of control over their destiny, and prevented rebellion, and he had encouraged it in his tribesmen. Consultation was the closest they came to democracy.
Today, the room was empty of most of its furniture, the twelve leather armchairs that were usually there having been replaced by white cotton sheets spread across a polished parquet floor. The Jirga sat cross-legged, their heads covered with soft prayer hats and bowed in solemnity. Some of them prayed silently, some a little louder, others discussed personal matters quietly between themselves.
Their Khan had gone on to the next world, leaving them in a place between life and d
eath; their affairs were unfinished, their questions unanswered. They needed a leader who could bring them together. Like fatherless children they waited for someone to show them the way. They waited for the child of their Khan, as was tradition, but a woman had not led their people in centuries and few had faith in her abilities.
‘Of course, nowadays these youngsters want to put us aside and think for themselves, as though we are stupid and know nothing of the world!’ Sher Khan said to one of his fellow Jirga members. While his sons had been in prison, they had developed opinions that did not sit right with him. He wanted to hand over his responsibilities as a Jirga member, but he had little faith in their ability to step into his shoes. He had been relying on the Khan’s power and wisdom to bring them into line. With Akbar Khan gone he was forced to seek counsel elsewhere. ‘What are we to do?’ he said. ‘I am afraid our ways will die if something is not done. Akbar Khan promised to help but now he has passed to the next life, may Allah be pleased with him, and I do not know where we will turn for answers.’
The man beside him nodded in understanding; the demise of their homeland and scant hope of pure-blood Pukhtun grandchildren in this new land concerned them greatly. A way would have to be found to navigate issues of marriage and still maintain family loyalties. But for now it would have to wait. The Khan was gone and rumours of a rebellion were surfacing. The limbo in which they found themselves could quickly turn to purgatory if plans were not put in place to restore faith.
Fitting then, that it was the aroma of burning coals that greeted Jia when she walked into the room. In one corner a chef carved a slow-roasted baby calf with a sharp knife. Jia’s stomach turned at the sight of the flesh falling to the platter below. The chef’s table was plump with meat of all kinds; chappal kebabs and chunks of lamb sat amid mountains of rice with slim strands of carrots, sultanas and raisins, and, of course, fresh naan.
Mubarak Khan handed her a piled-high plate. There was nothing on it she could eat, but meat was the staple of her people. ‘You have fulfilled the law well,’ she said to him. ‘I’ll take this with me and share it with my mother. She hasn’t eaten since the wedding.’
Mubarak Khan nodded. ‘Your father always said that it was our laws that set men apart from beasts,’ he said. ‘The old laws give our lives meaning.’ Jia nodded. She knew the laws of Pukhtunwali well. They were deeply ingrained in her people. Melmastia and nanawatai were laws that demanded unconditional generosity and gave Pukhtuns their reputation as the most hospitable people in the world. It was the law of badal that gave them their other reputation, for invoking vengeance. She knew that history’s ledger was filled with the body count of those who had attempted to avoid its fulfilment, and that the path of the Pathan flowed red with the blood of feuds. But she hoped that time had brought change and that a more enlightened group of men sat before her today.
Having worked hard to disentangle herself from her father’s empire, she was conflicted about agreeing to meet with them. She had raised this with Idris, but he had offered no alternative. Power lay in the Jirga, and she needed their support. In the end, Benyamin’s safety was paramount, so she had resolved to put her pride aside. The drive over had given her time to peel away some of her concerns and develop a kind of strategy.
She would ask her father’s allies for zmeka, the law that demands a Pukhtun defend his property. She would remind them that as a daughter of their tribe and the child of their Khan, the code by which they lived obligated them to defend her and her honour. She hoped they would respond to her call. She had lost one brother; she would not lose another.
The men rose as she entered, and waited for her to take her place. Her head still covered and bowed, solemn and aware that every eye was on her, she walked across to where Bazigh Khan was waiting. Her hand in his, he led her to her place at the front of the room. The men sat down again. The atmosphere was heavy with the work Bazigh Khan had done to pacify them; the residue of reined-in arrogance and the scent of testosterone still lingered. The room felt thick with resentment, their hostility thinly veiled. Like a pack of hungry wolves, they waited. She knew that these men could sense fear and twist it to their will. In that moment, she was glad of her father’s tutelage and his raising her not to fear men.
‘Jia jaan, you are the daughter of our Khan,’ Bazigh Khan said. ‘We would like to offer you our condolences. “Inna lillaahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon.” If you are in agreement, we would like to start with the Fatihah to pray for maghfirat for Akbar Khan.’ Jia nodded, joining the men as they placed their hands before their faces, shielding their eyes from the world to recite seven of the most powerful verses of the Quran, calling upon their God. Jia hoped He was listening.
With the word ‘ameen’, Bazigh Khan signalled the end of the prayer, the men’s voices chiming with his. Then, drawing from the Quran again, he said: ‘And give good tidings to the patient, who, when disaster strikes them, say, “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.”’
Jia wondered what her father would have to say about the situation in which she now found herself. She had considered his dispensation of justice to be ugly and misguided, feeding only his ego and having no place in the betterment of society. She had argued endlessly with him over this man’s value and that man’s virtue, but nothing had ever been resolved. And today, these dangerous men, these men whose reign she had long wished to see end, stood before her awaiting her guidance and instruction. She reminded herself of Benyamin and steeled herself for the onslaught.
Jaanan Khan spoke first; he was the eldest of the men. His tone was cold, his manner frosty, yet he began with kind words to her: ‘I would like to offer my condolences to you. Your father was a true Pathan and a king among our people. We will miss him and pray you find peace.’ A wry smile spread across his face, and he bared his teeth. ‘You are many things, Jia Khan, but you are not our Khan; you are a woman,’ he said.
‘I am here to listen to my father’s people,’ she responded. Silence fell across the room, followed by a sound from deep within Jaanan Khan’s belly. He was laughing at her. He turned to his comrades, smirking, and they joined him. Their half-suppressed scorn awoke an old hatred in Jia, one that she had not felt in some time. Anchoring herself with a reminder of who Jaanan Khan was, she refused to take the bait. His ways were the old ways, his sensibilities the old sensibilities. His green eyes had greyed watching time and people change, but his archaic interpretation of honour and loyalty had not, and he believed that women should know their place. Jia knew hers, and it was not at the feet of these men.
She raised her hand to silence them the way she had seen her father do many times. She was on course to become a judge under British law, so she knew how to control a room. Maybe that is why they stopped laughing. On the other hand, this was not that world, and this was a world in which her worth remained unproven.
She waited, allowing the silence in the room to grow until it became unbearable and Jaanan Khan exploded. ‘She will lead us into destruction! Look at her, so frightened that she dare not even speak.’ His anger infected his comrades and their voices rose like a rabble.
Bazigh Khan tried to silence them again but Jaanan would have none of it. The two men’s voices became louder and louder, with others at the table trying to out-shout each other. Harsh words were exchanged in English and Pashto, accusations flung and age-old wounds torn open. Jia listened, their words watering the anger within her, and she blamed her father. Was this his badal for her? To let her walk in his shoes? The rage that had taken root when she’d heard what had happened to Benyamin wrapped around her sinews like ivy. She straightened up, her head being pulled by an invisible string that hung from the rafters.
She looked at the old men who had built the family empire alongside her father, the men who owned the city and intimidated its inhabitants. She watched them spit and seethe and goad each other, unable to control their tongues and their tempers, and a calm came over her. She was better than this, she was smarter
than them, and she had nothing to prove.
Her voice even, her tone gentle, she looked at Jaanan Khan. ‘You benefit from the business of women. If women stopped buying from and selling to men, then where would you be?’ she said. The room fell to a hush. ‘We have not buried my father yet, and I have still to weep my share of tears, Lala.’ She moved forward and placed her hand on the old man’s arm, knowing that calling him uncle had softened him a little. ‘I was your Khan’s favourite child and this is how you repay him. Does his death and a woman’s pain and honour mean so little to you?’
He had expected her to light the fuse, not pour sand on his vitriol. A look of shame flashed across his face and in that moment Jia knew she had him.
She glanced around the room at the other men. She had watched them grow old, from fathers to grandfathers, and she understood that they were withering away and clinging to their views in the hope of remaining relevant.
‘Do not be offended, Daughter,’ said Bazigh Khan. ‘We want in no way to dishonour your father’s memory or to take from you this time of grief. It is justice we seek. These are our ways, and so it has been for centuries.’
‘These ways of which you speak have killed my father and endangered my brother’s life,’ said Jia.
One of the men, a little younger than the others, nodded at her words, leaning forward as he spoke, his Pashto not as clear as the others: ‘If we do not impress upon the perpetrators the error of their ways, how will they learn? Jia jaan, it is as a mercy to them that we must act.’